by Smoke , Lucy
"He never acted like this," Rylie finishes, sipping her drink as we turn and—ignoring Dean's glare—seek out a table on the far side of the wall.
"And what, exactly," I clarify, "is he acting like?"
Her gaze seeks mine out over the rim of her cup. "Like a man possessed."
I scoff. "You're wrong." My bag hits the seat a little harder than I intend, knocking the chair back against the girl sitting at the table next to it. She turns, her mouth open, lips pulled down in a scowl, and stops cold. The second her eyes light on me, she turns back around in her seat and starts to gather up her stuff like she's intending to leave ... which is exactly what she does a moment later, I realize, as I finally actually take my seat. What the fuck?
My head jerks around, seeking Dean out across the room. I don't know what I expected, perhaps that he would turn his face away and pretend he hadn't been staring—and scaring everything in the vicinity off. But no, that's not Dean Carter's style. Instead, he takes my sudden attention as an accomplishment of some kind—he must—because his chest expands as he inhales sharply, and then he smiles, a grim, wicked smile that makes me think of a cold, darkened bedroom, soft sheets tossed over the side of a glorious mattress, and a single trail of blood running down the side of Roger Murphy's face.
I blink. Those are two very different images, and yet, each one of them has the same effect on me.
"And now you're staring at him," Rylie comments dryly, pulling me back from the brink of insanity. For that's what these feelings are: pure, unadulterated derangement.
"No," I snap. "I'm not."
She purses her lips and lifts both brows.
"You know, you've gotten a lot less scared of me," I tell her. "I wonder what I have to do to get you back to the avoidance stage."
Her black-rimmed eyes roll. "I was never scared of you." Her face turns down, and she sets her cup on the edge of the table. "There's not much that scares me anymore," she finishes in a quieter voice.
I wonder...
Rylie's a lot like me—I'd known that the first day I met her. And then there was that morning in the bathroom. Just how much does Rylie suspect? There's no way she could know absolutely, but she's also far more intuitive than I think other people give her credit for. It doesn't shock me, if she'd grown up in even half the same kinda shithole I had, then there's a reason for that.
People like us didn't get kisses at bedtime or tucked in by PTA moms with smiles. We were lucky if we got fed every day. And it's this train of thought that makes me remember my mom. Who, for all intents and purposes, is still MIA. Who knows where she is? Probably off on some binge somewhere. Even if Roger's gone, she won't stop the drugs and alcohol. He hadn't been her only dealer.
I flick a glance across the room once more to Dean, and this time, he's not looking at me. He's talking to Abel, his brows low over his eyes as his lips move with the shaping of his words. What’s more annoying, I think, is that in profile, he’s even more attractive. When those damning eyes of his aren’t boring holes into my back, he almost looks normal. As normal as any dark god fallen down to Earth, ready to wreak some lustful havoc could be. I know better than most people that Dean is no god. He’s evil. Pure and simple. And unfortunately for me, I like that far more than if he’d been some sanctified divine entity.
Abel’s shoulders rise and fall with a sigh, and his eyes slide towards me for a brief moment before he looks back at Dean and nods. I wonder what it is they’re talking about. Whatever it is, though, I’m sure I’ll find out eventually—and usually in the worst way. Why the fuck is my life the way it is?
I grumble as I pull out my notebook, and Rylie opens up her laptop. “Starting tomorrow,” I mutter, “whatever life throws at me, I’m ducking, so it hits someone fucking else.”
* * *
I hover outside of Bairns' door the next day, tapping my foot against the floor and trying to figure a way out of this stupid fucking meeting. The door opens, and Ms. Bairns appears before me in a tight navy-blue pants suit with white pinstripes down the front and back.
"Avalon!" she says my name with surprise, and I narrow my eyes, "you're here."
I shoulder my way past her and take a seat. "You emailed," I remind her. "This is supposed to be our last meeting of the semester."
"Yes..." She shuts the door behind her slowly as if she's still debating on going to get whatever it is that she'd originally opened the door for.
I stand back up. "I can come back—"
"No!" She scrambles back across the room. "I was just—it's nothing. So, no," she repeats it and looks me in the eye as she sits behind her desk. "No need to come back later. You're here now."
She shuffles a few papers off of her desk and into one of the drawers next to her in a way that makes me wonder why she wants them out of my sight. She then turns to her computer, and I wait while clicks and tapping fill the silence as she types something into her keyboard.
"Your grades look wonderful," she says, giving me an approving glance and smile. "I'm not surprised. I knew you were smart when you were recruited." A few more clicks. A few more taps. I lift my arm and rest my elbow on the arm of the chair and let my head fall against my palm as I watch her work. Every once in a while, her eyes dart my way—trailing down to the rest of me before they go back to her screen.
"Yes, it seems everything is going well..." she says, trailing off as her hands leave the computer keyboard and mouse and fold in front of her. "And since you're here and this is our last meeting, I was wondering if you'd given any more consideration to the offer I made you the last time we spoke."
I drop my arm. I knew this was coming. I turn away from her beseeching eyes to look out the one window in the room. Sun pours in through the vertical slatted blinds.
Stay at Eastpoint? It's only four years, but that feels like a long fucking time to me. Four years of the Sick Boys—of Dean—hanging over my shoulder, dogging my every step. I clench my teeth at the same time my hands ball into fists. Do I have another option?
I try to picture another path for myself. Say 'no' and go back to Plexton? No. If I step foot in that piece of shit town again, I'll probably burn the place to the ground. It doesn’t matter that there are good people who live there. I'd set everything on fire. The shitty trailer park I'd grown up in, the school, and the church. Fuck it all. I don't care. The place is nothing but a monster of a memory for me, and I want all of it to disintegrate into ashes. Ashes that I create.
"Avalon?" I must have been sitting there for a while because when Ms. Bairns says my name, she sounds confused and a little frustrated, as if she's been calling it for a while.
I blink and turn my attention back to her. "Sorry, what did you say?" I ask to give myself a moment to collect my thoughts and shove away the image of an entire town on fire.
"I asked if you'd given any more consideration to staying here at Eastpoint," she says. "As a student in our scholarship program this time rather than the dual enrollment program. With these grades"—she gestures to her computer screen, which coincidentally I can't see, so I just have to assume she's got my entire academic portfolio pulled up—"it won't be a problem to switch your information over."
"Aren't there other things?" I say. "Application fees and shit?"
"We'll waive those fees, of course." She sits up straighter as she senses my impending decision.
"Can I stay in the dorm?" I ask. That's my main priority. This time, I'm not going to be taken unawares. Not having a place to stay over spring break had been more trouble than it was worth. If I'm going to commit to Eastpoint, and therefore, the Sick Boys, then I don't want to be kicked out at regular intervals just because of some stupid university policies.
Bairns' face tightens as if she's displeased by the question, her lips thinning as she presses them together. Her eyes flick to the side as she answers. "You won't need to worry about room and board," she says, her tone careful. "Everything will be provided for you by the scholarship."
I grit my teeth
and straighten in my seat. "Okay," I say. Though I keep my voice light and casual, I feel anything but. This isn't just the acceptance of a scholarship. I'm not so naive as to believe that. This is diving headfirst into a vat of poison, and hoping like hell, my body will build resistance quickly.
"You agree?" she asks, blinking in surprise and barely suppressed excitement.
"Yeah, I agree." The words choke out of my throat.
Eastpoint. Four years. Dean Carter. I'm effectively tying my own hands. Binding myself to the devil because I see no other recourse.
Ms. Bairns becomes a flurry of movement. Drawers slam open and closed, and stacks of paper appear on her desk in a blink. She goes through them quickly, scanning with an eye faster than I expect. Then she's gathering them into a packet, clipping them together, and attaching her signature to the bottom of the first page before turning them around for me.
"This is for you then," she says quickly. Her gaze darts from the packet back to the screen of her computer as her fingers fly across the keyboard. "I'm so happy you've decided to stay at Eastpoint, Avalon. You have no idea how great of an opportunity this will be." She chatters nonstop, not even bothering to stop and take a breath as I sit there and stare at her, the pages she'd shoved at me crumpled in my hands. "Eastpoint is quite well known for many of its programs. You don't need to make any decisions right away, of course, but I will need to know what major you'd like to select. There's a list there"—she stops and nods to the clipped papers in my grasp—"email me as soon as you know. I'll take care of the other paperwork that will transfer your dual enrollment scholarship to the official student one. I'll send you a few documents in your student email for you to review. We've already got a basic outline from the original application I filled out for you for the dual enrollment program."
How long can this woman keep going? I think numbly. When will her face start turning blue from the lack of oxygen? But it doesn't appear as if she's struggling at all. Instead, her cheeks are flushed pink with excitement, and her eyes are sparkling ... with relief?
I narrow my gaze at that last detail. Relief. The emotion confuses me, and I'm reminded why I was so hesitant to say yes before. Her desperation had thrown me off and seeing her reaction to my acquiescence now is just as unsettling.
"Okay," I say, rising from my chair. She finally drifts off, focusing extra hard on whatever's on her screen. I take a step back, waiting for her to say something that might stop me, but she doesn't.
It isn't until I get to the door that I say anything. "And you're sure that I won't be kicked out of the dorm?" I ask again, just to confirm my largest worry—having a place to actually fucking live. Even if it means selling my soul to this university and the Sick Boys.
Bairns' fingers freeze over her keyboard, and I frown as the earlier blush that had stolen across her cheeks leeches away slowly. She inhales before turning her sharp eyes my way. "Everything will work itself out, Avalon," she says gently. "I assure you, you will be taken care of."
Well, all right then. I give her a nod and then reach behind me, feeling for the handle. I touch it and turn it, pivoting to leave when a whisper on her lips reaches my ears. It's said so quietly that I don't think she expects me to hear it. And it, more than anything—more than her reactions, more than her desperation, more than the Sick Boys and Dean Carter, himself—confuses the shit out of me. Because the words she whispers are,
"You belong here."
8
Avalon
I almost forget Dean's demand that I attend the Sick Boys stupid party. It isn't until I get a text from him Friday night, warning me to be ready for pick up, that I remember. I slam my textbook closed and roll over the side of the bed with a groan. There's absolutely nothing I'd rather do tonight other than study, finish my final assignments, and fucking sleep. I certainly don't want to spend the evening listening to too loud music and watching annoying, spoiled assholes grind against one another. But Dean hadn’t had any trouble breaking into my dorm room before. He won’t now.
"Lemme guess," Rylie says, without looking up. "Dean Carter."
I blow out a breath and stare at her hard. She doesn't turn to meet my stare. No, her eyes are locked on the flat, illuminated screen of her laptop. She appears intensely concentrated on whatever it is that she's doing. A thought pops into my brain, and my annoyance morphs into something more. If I can't have what I want, then neither can she. At least, not tonight. I get off the bed and kick the back of her desk chair.
"Get dressed," I tell her. "You're going with me."
She freezes and glances at me, her upper lip curling back in disgust. "Abso-fucking-lutely not." Her gaze returns to the screen, but she keeps talking. "Do you remember the last time you demanded I come somewhere with you? Because I do. You ditched my ass, and I had to hike it halfway back before I caught a ride. So, no thanks. If you're in a fight with your boyfriend, leave me the fuck out of it."
"He's not my boyfriend," I snap before I can stop myself. Even as the words pop out, though, my mind's rolling the word over. Dean Carter. Boyfriend? He's not boyfriend material. He's a narcissistic monster in ridiculously expensive clothes.
“Whatever you wanna call him—I’m not in,” she replies.
"Oh, you're going," I say as I head towards my closet. "You can either go to the party with me, or you can try to escape going to the party with me. Either way, you're getting out of this dorm room."
I hear the slam of her laptop as it closes. "Why do you like to torment me?" she asks, clearly irritated. "Seriously. I'm fucking nice to you. I warn you away from them. You don't listen. I tell you to get your shit together. Instead of heeding that, you lose your ever-loving shit. I go to a club with you, and you ditch my ass."
"That wasn't really my fault," I point out. "I was kidnapped." And held down by Dean's body against mine in the back of his SUV. The first time he threatened to fuck me. I pause as I recall the memory. Part of me expects something to happen. Sweat to start popping up. Hives, maybe. An internal shudder. Something. Anything. But all I get is the dampening of my panties.
Why? I wonder as I change clothes, grabbing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a ripped neckline.
The memory of being with Dean—no matter how suggestively cruel—is different from the night with Roger Murphy. All I'd ever felt for Murphy was disgust and powerlessness. I didn't feel that way with Dean. No. Thoughts of Dean are magnetic, they draw me inexplicably in. I try to imagine him over me—more violent than before. Maybe covered in blood or … when he'd grabbed my throat. Squeezed until dots had danced in front of my vision. Again, all I get in response is a faster heartbeat and the tightening of my thighs.
Even if I hate Dean Carter, there's no denying he's a good lover. An addictive, dangerous lover.
"I don't care if God, himself, came down and told you to strip naked and run through campus," Rylie rants. "What could possibly make me want to go to a party with you after that last fiasco?"
My lips twitch. "’Cause we're friends," I say, emphasizing the last word. "And friends don't let other friends walk into the lion's den alone."
Her jaw drops, and for a split second, I wonder if she's about to throw something at me. Then she inhales a breath and glares at me. "Even if—and that's a big if," she snaps, "I considered us friends, then I would be out of my goddamn mind."
I shrug as I lift my hair out of the back of my t-shirt and heft the weight of it over one shoulder, braiding it down the side to keep it out of the way. "I'm not judging you for your mental instability," I say.
Her jaw works back and forth as she grinds her teeth before standing up and pacing towards her closet and then back to her desk. "You can't do this to me again," she says. "I'm not threatened anymore by your connection with the Sick Boys. I've resigned myself to that."
I sit on my bed and grab a pair of worn, thrift store combat boots from under the bed. "What will make you say yes?" I ask as I wiggle my toes into them and start lacing them up.
Rylie
comes to a dead stop right in front of me. "You're really serious?" A v forms between her brows. "Like really really serious?"
Just the mere presence of someone who's not a wealthy socialite or a Sick Boys minion isn't going to be enough to deter Dean if there's something he wants to do, but in the last few weeks—especially in the last few months—I've come to like Rylie. Which is fucking weird. I don't like anyone. Fact is, I want her there. I want Dean to see that my world doesn't revolve around him and the things that have happened to me. I can be friends with other people. I can at least have the appearance of normal.
"Yes," I say.
She groans. "Fine," she says before turning back towards her closet. Clothes start flying out. "But you owe me," she continues, the sound of her voice muffled from inside the small alcove. "And you have to promise"—Rylie stops and turns back to me, fixing me with a wide-eyed, serious look—"you are not ditching me."
"Dean's—"
"No," Ry interrupts, holding up a hand and shaking her head. "Promise, or I'm not going."
"Ugh. Fine, I promise," I say.
She eyes me skeptically, but whatever she sees must convince her because she turns back to her closet, and several minutes later, she comes out in skin-tight black leggings and a purple mesh top over a black tank.
"When are we leaving?" she asks just as my phone beeps.
I glance at the screen and grin. "Right now," I say, standing up.
"What?" she shrieks at me before she begins dashing around the room. A bag of makeup is thrown at my head as she scrambles to grab her shoes. "Makeup," she snaps. "Shoes."
I catch the makeup bag and set it down on the edge of my bed. "Don't forget the assets," I say. "Pits. Tits. Wallets."
